01 - The Burning Shore (10 page)

Filling his cook tin Lorenzo hastened back to Florin to tell him the good
news, tripping over fallen rigging as he made his way back to the cabin. Once
there he kicked open the door with a bang and handed Florin the steaming tin.

“The storm’s broken,” he said smugly, as though he’d somehow personally
arranged the improved weather.

“Storm?” Florin slurped the contents down hungrily. “What storm?”

Lorenzo was still chuckling when Orbrant, as unmoved by the storm’s passing
as he had been by its fury, knocked on the cabin door to make his first official
report.

It was another day before Florin could stand up without dizziness, and three
more before he could walk around the deck. The violence of the fever had left
him gaunt, his shirt hanging like an empty sail from his bones, but at least his
wound had healed into a healthy jagged scar. The pink slash ran down beside his
spine, and the surgeon’s only advice was to shield the raw flesh from the sun.

He would have done so anyway. There was no doubt now that they had travelled
far, far to the south of Bordeleaux. Even beneath the brisk sea breeze the
tropical skies burned with a scorching blue light, the midday sun beating down
on men grown sluggish with the heat.

Not that that stopped the
Destrier
’s crew. Day by day they struggled
to repair the damage done by the storm. Ignoring the sweat that poured off them
they raced to get their ship back into shape, so that the days were filled with
the sound of hammering and sawing, and the cries of foremen as they manhandled
timber across the vessel.

The
Destrier
’s sister ships, the
Hippogriff
and the
Beaujelois,
seemed in even worse shape. They limped along behind her, their
splendid white sails now as bedraggled as a street urchin’s rags. The
Beaujelois
had even lost her foremast. The splintered stump made her seem as unbalanced as an elephant with only one tusk. Long boats of materials and
craftsmen plied back and forth between the three ships, swapping canvas and
expertise under Captain-Owner Gorth’s foul-mouthed direction.

The mercenaries, meanwhile, had been confined to quarters, their clumsy limbs
stowed out of the crew’s way whilst they worked. So, while the sailors toiled
above in the healthy sea air, Florin’s men remained rotting in the dank
fever-pit of the hold. He’d visited them on the second day, where he’d been
impressed by their ragged salute as much as by the squalor in which they lived.
Judging by the coughing and the babbling of the delirious, he could tell that
the men needed a change of quarters.

Eventually, of course, they’d be allowed up onto the deck to sleep under the
warm southern stars or through canvas-shaded days, but only when the skipper had
finished repairing the storm damage. And when that would happen, nobody appeared
to know.

In fact, it often seemed to Florin that things were getting worse. Even now,
as he made his way over to the stern deck, a great, splintered beam was being
lowered down onto the main deck, trailing a mess of twisted tackle behind it.

He skirted the mess, Lorenzo close behind him, and greeted the two men he
found there.

“Good-day to you, skipper,” he said, bounding up the steps and offering his
hand. “Just wanted to thank you for getting us all through that storm.”

The sailor nodded his thanks, and grasped Florin’s hand.

“Don’t mention it, cappo,” he said, eyes smiling within the weathered creases
of his face. “If I’d have lost his ship old man Gorth would have followed me
down into the deeps to give me a beating for it.”

Florin laughed. Old man Gorth, although safely ensconced on his flagship, was
legend amongst passengers and crew both. Rumour had it that he’d built this
fleet up from nothing but the fishing skiff his uncle had left him and Florin,
although he’d never seen the man, was inclined to believe it.

“According to what I’ve heard, the old man probably would have. And you,
captain,” he continued, turning to the other man. “We were never introduced. I’m
Captain Florin d’Artaud.”

Again he held out his hand and the Kislevite, after regarding it for one
suspicious moment, reached out and shook.

“Graznikov,” the man muttered, and squeezed as hard as he could. Florin
squeezed back. Only when the two men’s knuckles start to shine white did Florin
force himself to pull his hand away.

The small victory was enough to paint a wide smile across the pink expanse of
Graznikov’s flabby face. His small blue eyes gleamed as he drew a bottle of
clear liquid out from the folds of his cloak.

“You southerners, very soft,” he smirked, uncorking the bottle and taking a
long pull. After a moment’s hesitation he offered the bottle to the skipper, who
declined, and then Florin.

“Cheers,” he said, raising the glass before taking a swig.

The alcohol burned its way down Florin’s throat like molten lead. There was
no taste to it, unless you counted the hint of burnt grease. It didn’t even have
a smell.

“Excellent,” Florin deadpanned, passing the bottle back. Although his
expression gave nothing away he couldn’t stop the red flush that burned his
cheeks, nor the tears that blurred his vision.

Graznikov sniggered sadistically and took another swig. Then he passed it
back, his greed overcome by the pleasure of seeing another man suffer.

“Drink, drink,” he told Florin encouragingly.

“You’re very kind,” Florin agreed and took another gulp of the vile liquid.
Surprisingly, this mouthful was as nasty as the first.

“Thank you very much, Captain Graznikov,” he handed the bottle back.
“Acshually, I mean actually, I’m glad we met. I wanted to talk to you about the
men.”

“Talk later,” Graznikov decided, lifting back the tall fur hat that seemed to
serve his company as uniform and scratching his head. “First drink.” His eyes
disappeared between rolls of fat as he smiled evilly.

“After you.”

“Chyars, you say, hey?” Graznikov waved the bottle towards Florin before
taking another pull. “I take three fingers, you see? Now you take three
fingers.”

“Three fingers,” Florin nodded, wrapped four fingers around the bottle, and
drank.

“Now talk,” Graznikov said, retrieving the bottle and carefully driving the
cork back home.

“It’s about… about the men,” Florin paused. He was waiting for the nausea
to pass before continuing. “I’d like to move all the sick onto the upper deck, where your lads are. It’ll be a lot healthier for ’em.”

Graznikov looked at him blankly, and Florin wondered if he’d understood. But
before he repeated himself the Kislevite answered.

“Why?” he asked, incomprehension furrowing his brow.

“Why? Well, they’ll recover quicker if they’re dry. Isn’t that right,
skipper?”

The sailor, who’d been watching his carpenters getting to work on the boom,
nodded absent-mindedly.

“That’s right. That’s how we always treat our lot. The fevered need to be
kept dry and warm.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Graznikov waved away the explanation impatiently. “But why I
move my men? They are happy. If they are happy, I am happy.”

“Yes, I understand,” Florin agreed. “But all we want to do is to bring up our
sick from the hold.”

“Not possible. Old man Gorth, he gave the upper deck to me. The skipper knows
this. Not possible I move them.”

“Even for gold?”

“How much?” Graznikov asked, the future once more full of possibilities.

“Twenty gold crowns.”

“No. Not enough. I move my men, I have too much trouble.”

“Well, then, perhaps a wager. After all we’re both gentlemen, not merchants.
My twenty crowns against your upper deck.”

Graznikov sucked at his teeth thoughtfully.

“What wager? I no fight you. I see what you do already!” Graznikov smiled
approvingly, as if at some fond memory.

“What wager do you choose?” Florin asked, warily.

“I show you. Drobnic!” He turned and bellowed across the deck to his
sergeant. “Bring my dragons!”

“Dragons?”

“You see, you see,” The Kislevite said smugly. “Now we have another drink,
no? Finish bottle.”

“If it doesn’t finish me first,” Florin replied weakly. Graznikov howled with
laughter and punched his arm.

“No! Is good for you!”

By the time Graznikov’s man returned the bottle was empty. The Kislevite,
legs as steady as ever, went to the prow of the foredeck and wedged the glass
against the rail. Then, content with his handiwork, he paced back to the opposite rail and opened the box his sergeant proffered.

“My dragons,” he smiled as he reached inside and drew both of them out.
“Here. Look.”

So saying he thrust one into Florin’s hand and started the delicate operation
of loading the other. He was slow and careful about this task, perhaps because
of the danger inherent in black powder or perhaps because the gun was so
beautiful.

And they were beautiful. The finely wrought barrels, thick bored steel as
long as a man’s forearm, ended in muzzles that snarled open in the likeness of a
dragon’s mouth. Behind them the length of the metal was inlaid with a silver
damasque of intertwined beasts and birds, and the thick club of the gun’s body
and grip shone with the dull inner glow of well-polished walnut.

Wielding a ramrod with a flourish Graznikov firmly pushed down a scrap of
wadding to hold down the charge in the first, then swapped it with the one
Florin was holding and repeated the process.

Florin hefted the bulky weapon and squinted along the length. The two beads,
fore and aft, bobbed up and down as he waved the pistol inexpertly from side to
side.

“Good, good,” Graznikov muttered, after priming the second. “Now look.
Trigger. Punch back. Make hammer punch here. Then, bang! Very easy.”

“I see,” said Florin. He’d once used a similar weapon, although that had been
a long time ago.

“Now, come. Stand here. We fire at bottle, yes?”

“But I don’t know how,” Florin shrugged and tried to give the pistol back.
Graznikov shook his head.

“No problem. First, practise. Look along barrel,” Florin followed his advice,
and peered along the foreshortened steel.

“Make line of sights.” The bottle jumped back and forth across the two beads,
until Florin gradually held it still.

“Now punch trigger!”

Florin fired. The pistol leapt in his hands, an explosion of flame and black
smoke erupting from the muzzle.

When it had cleared he peered forward, cautiously massaging his wrist.

“Hey, not bad. Look, I chipped the rail just to the left of it.”

“Good, good,” Graznikov beamed. “She pulls, that one. They both do. To the
left. Now, again, and point a little right.”

Florin took the next pistol and aimed again, this time waiting until the
sights were an inch to the right before firing.

Once more the pistol roared as it spat a blur of lead out in its fiery
breath. This time, when the smoke cleared, there was nothing left of the bottle
apart from a fine dusting of glass splinters.

“Very good,” the skipper said, dryly. “But if you want to carry on shooting my
ship, go and fire at that mess at the pinnace. It’s all going to have to go
anyway.”

“Good, good,” Graznikov nodded, busily reloading the second pistol and
handing it back to Florin. “Come, my friend, we’ll find a target, yes? A wager?”

“We’ll see,” Florin muttered, swapping a wary glance with Lorenzo before
following the stocky Kislevite up to the rail.

For a while the two men regarded the messy tangle that was all that remained
of the
Destrier
’s elegant pinnace. Where once the sleek wood had thrust
forward from her prow, as sharp and eager as a narwhal’s tusk, it was now a
splintered stump, the canvas and rope that it had once borne so elegantly aloft
now trailed miserably downwards into the sea.

“Why don’t you shoot at that block on the end?” the skipper suggested, coming
forward to stand between the two men.

“Yes. Good,” Graznikov nodded.

“It’s a bit small, isn’t it?”

“No hurry,” Graznikov grinned encouragingly.

“What do you think, Lorenzo?” Florin asked doubtfully.

“I think you’re mad,” he said, and spat disgustedly over the side. “What do
you know about guns? Might as well just give him our money now and have done
with it.”

“Stupid,” Graznikov snarled at him. “Maybe I fire at you instead.”

Florin chewed his lip thoughtfully until Graznikov, overwhelmed with disgust,
snatched the pistol from his hand.

“Yes, too weak. Too frightened,” he sneered.

Florin turned on him, face flushed with anger, or drink, or a combination of
the two.

“Give me the gun,” he demanded. “Let’s do it. The skipper can be our witness.
If I shoot the block off first my men get the upper deck. If you do it, I’ll pay
you twenty crowns.”

“Gold crowns,” Graznikov reminded him.

“Gold it is.”

“You’re sure about this?” the skipper, who knew trouble brewing when he saw
it, asked them.

“Yes, yes, yes,” the Kislevite agreed impatiently.

“Yes,” Florin nodded.

“I go first,” Graznikov said and, before anybody could protest, he raised his
pistol and fired.

It was an excellent shot. If the block hadn’t swung to one side at the same
moment that the Kislevite had fired the bullet, it would have hit dead centre.
As it was, it just chipped the side and spun it around like a top.

For a moment the men watched spellbound as the rope from which it hung
twisted and knotted, frayed edges sticking out wildly. But for now, at least,
the block remained in place.

“Not bad,” Florin allowed, heartened by Graznikov’s scowl. Then he turned his
attention to the block. It swung and bobbed, a tiny mark against the shifting
blues and greens of the sea. It occurred to Florin, not for the first time, that
he could stand here blazing away at it all day without even chipping the target.